


i know they said the end is near

by starblessed



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Based on a True Story, Break Up, Canon Compliant, Canon Era, F/M, POV Female Character, i have no idea what audience i wrote this for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:13:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25494433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starblessed/pseuds/starblessed
Summary: “You don’t have to write back, if it’s too much trouble,” he’d said, gripping her elbows lightly, a week before he left. His tone was soft, but his dark eyes were lit by some fervid light, just shy of desperation. When he spoke, it sounded like a prayer. “It’s comforts me to put my thoughts down on paper... and to know that someone back home is reading.”“Send me the letters, dear,” she replied. When her hand found her husband’s clean-shaven face, he unconsciously leaned into the touch. A bit of that wire-taut tension melted from his frame, the hunger dulling in his eyes. “I’ll read every word. It will keep me from missing you so terribly.”-----------ron writes love letters like a prince.except this is not a fairytale, and there is no happy ending.
Relationships: Ronald Speirs/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 8





	i know they said the end is near

**Author's Note:**

> Of course, the characters in this fic are based off of their fictional portrayals from the miniseries Band of Brothers. I mean absolutely no disrespect or reflection onto the real-life veterans!
> 
> Find me on tumblr at [renelemaires](http://renelemaires.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> folklore just came out last night and catch me using lyrics as titles today

The letters come with the changing of the seasons. From summer to autumn, then autumn to winter... as months pass, so too do the crowded pages. Ron is never in one place for too long. He does not have the luxury of leaving a return address, nor of sitting down by a sunlight window, a cup of tea as he pours through his latest missive. With all he has to worry about, it’s amazing that he finds the time to pen long letters at all.

“You don’t have to write back, if it’s too much trouble,” he’d said, gripping Eleanor’s elbows lightly, a week before he left. His tone was soft, but his dark eyes were lit by some fervid light, just shy of desperation. When he spoke, it sounded like a prayer. “It’s comforts me to put my thoughts down on paper... and to know that someone back home is reading.”

“Send me the letters, dear,” she replied. When her hand found her husband’s clean-shaven face, he unconsciously leaned into the touch. A bit of that wire-taut tension melted from his frame, the hunger dulling in his eyes. “I’ll read every word. It will keep me from missing you so terribly.”

She warned him, of course, that she wasn’t much of a letter writer. Ron understood. He took it with the same grace he took all of her flaws, as though they only made her more curious in his eyes, more valuable. Ron had a certain way about him — something Eleanor’s mother called “a jeweler’s eye”. He appraised his treasures and held them close, reevaluating their worth each day. Ron has a taste for precious things. Beneath Eleanor’s worn-out widow’s lustre, he must have seen some kind of glimmer… for, from the moment they met eyes across a crowded dance hall, he’s always looked at her like the rarest of gems.

“Can’t trust a man like that,” her mother warned. “Especially a Yank. They think they deserve the best of everything, and know how to take it.”

Eleanor could not bring herself to admit the harsh truth: after nearly three years of empty beds and lonely nights, she yearned to be taken again. She craved it like a drowning man craves air; without it, she was slowly wasting away, and some days she felt sure she’d die. Brits, of course, are not at all inclined to melodrama. In the past years, however, they’d all become well-acquainted with death. He passed the nation’s doorstep so frequently that they’d learned to recognize him now by shadow — by a whistle in the air, or a telegraph coming up the walkway. When Eleanor lost Davy, Death held her like an old friend while she fell apart. Since Davy, Death was the only one to hold her.

Then Ron came along, and changed everything. She always vowed that she’d never take another name, another ring, another husband… but he looked at her like she was priceless, and those dark eyes were intoxicating. Ron came on like a thunderstorm. His attention was intense, unyielding. His devotions were sweeter than expected. In bed… good god, there was no way to describe it without sounding crass. With his body against hers, Eleanor became well acquainted with the  _ littlest _ death… many, many times.

Still, it all ends the same way in war. Davy went off, leaving her with a ring and a promise to write. He never even got the chance to send his letters, before…

A part of Eleanor is surprised when, less than month after Ron leaves, an envelope arrives with her name on it. It’s US Army, clearly — they use those glaring stamps, and the dreadful  _ censors _ have combed through Ron’s letter like a fussy portress after midnight. He doesn’t have much to say that could be considered state secrets, however… unless the contents of Lt. Speirs’s heart are confidential.

_ My Beloved Eleanor,  _ he begins every single letter — and her heart always misses a beat, seizing up before she can bring herself to read the next line.

_ By now, you have surely heard of the invasion of France, and the days of fighting which have followed. I have made it through alive, and mostly unscathed. A few scrapes and bruises won’t take me out of the game so easily, though I would like nothing more than to return to you. It is impossible to say how keenly the distance between us is felt. The days feel long, and the nights longer, in the absence of your presence. The sun does not shine as brightly. My world has been reduced to each passing moment, with no expectation of what lies ahead... for, of course, tomorrow is not guaranteed to us. _

_ You are fortunate back home. France is worse than imagined. Everything we see, hear, or taste, is numb somehow, as if we have entered a world where it does not fully exist. We have found ourselves in a place that has seen great human suffering, and will bear those scars long after the war’s end. France has been brutalized, but not broken. The country’s spirit reminds me of your own. I feel the same deep admiration... though I promise, all my love remains yours alone. _

_ I keep thinking of you in your garden, tending your camellias. At moments when the night is darkest, I remember how you laughed when I tucked a flower behind your ear... how we lay in the grass on that old worn picnic blanket, side by side, running our fingers through each others’ hair as we spoke about the future. Such memories feel as though they’re from another lifetime. I do not know how to reconcile the man who held you so tenderly with the one who has seen war... so, if a separation must form between the two, these letters will be the only place that tender man is allowed to exist. Until I see you again, and can once more hold you in my arms... all I have are letters. Forgive me if I sound sappy at times. _

_ How are you? Write and tell me all you can. Do not feel pressured to write a long letter. I only crave your words, however few you are able to give me. _

_ Yours, however far away we may be, _

_ Lt. Ronald C. Speirs _

He writes like a poet, and signs his letters like a paratrooper. The contrast is so quintessentially Ron. For a long time, Eleanor can only hold the letter to her chest, imagining his arms around her and trying not to be swept away.

She does write back, though it takes longer than it ought to. Finding the right words has never been easy; without Ron in front of her, he seems so far away, like a dream half-remembered upon waking. A selfish part of her feels as though that’s all he is — a fantasy, summoned by her desperate desire to be seen, for six brief, sweet months before war struck again. She misses him… but not, she often feels, in the ways that she  _ should _ . 

Ron is so easy to talk to. In writing, however, her words struggle to cross the distance of the Channel.

When she finally does write, it’s disappointingly mundane — barely a page, and she talks about her mother’s health issues for half of that. Just what a soldier at war wants to be reading about. She curses herself even as she seals the envelope, but after six discarded drafts, it’s as good as it's going to get.  _ Boring _ is better than  _ nothing _ .

When Ron writes back, she isn’t sure what to expect. Instead of annoyance, his reply is devastatingly sincere.

_ Do not apologize for the length or tone of your letters. Even receiving a page from you was enough to leave my heart light and feet lighter; your words were the most welcome distraction from the war we wage, the only distraction I can allow. Thinking of you, dreaming of you, is the only thing that calls me home. It reminds me that a heart beats even now in my chest... and each beat belongs to you. Your name reverberates through my chest sixty times a minute. If I could tear my heart from between my ribs and send it in a box to you — a heavy loss, sure, but the only safe thing at a time like this — I would. There is no one else in the world I trust to keep it safe. _

_ How is your mother feeling? I’m sorry to hear about her ulcer. If you can find any cranberries, she may find relief from juice. My own grandfather swore on it. Unwavering Highlander that he was, his opinions often held water. Medication is in short supply, but there is a man down in the alley behind Fletcher’s tavern that may be able to help. Do not give him your real name. There is money in a false bottom in our bedside table that you may use to pay him. I would prefer you wait, of course, but your mother needs relief, and her wellbeing cannot hinge on the possibility of my return. You will be able to manage. No woman on earth is more capable, or more determined when it comes to helping those she loves. _

_ I dream of you, Ellie. Nights are the only time I allow my mind to wander away from the war. I see my parents’ cozy kitchen, the Boston public library, even the Scottish glens I barely recall from my youth. Invariably, though, my mind turns to you. I remember the sweet smell of your perfume, and the way the sunlight catches in your hair on bright days. I remember the way your voice drops low and smooth when you say my name… and your hands, soft as silk, running along my bare shoulders. I miss you like an aching wound.  _

_ Write to me when you get the chance, if only to reassure me about the cranberries. _

_ Devotedly yours, _

_ Lt. Ronald C. Speirs _

She keeps this letter in the bottom of the drawer, in place of the money Ron was storing away — and a dozen other valuables she never even knew about. It seems like the proper place for them. Ron’s words deserve to be treated like precious things, and guarded just as fiercely.

Her mother gets better. Still, Eleanor hesitates to write. An icy hesitation locks around her ribcage, paralyzing her every time she picks up a pen. Something inside of her rebels at the idea of sending a letter; perhaps it’s the idea of their correspondence being picked through by a third party, a nosy censor’s eyes combing over every word, but Eleanor knows it’s something else. She remembers the letters to Davy, returned unopened, and her gut still twists with grief.

Perhaps she’s selfish, but when she receives notification that Ron’s been wounded in action, Eleanor is relieved she never sent a reply.

He writes her from the hospital — a short, reassuring note, without much fluff. She appreciates the gesture, and sends back an actual reply; she misses him, she was worried for him, it’s a relief to know that he’s okay. She hopes to see him soon; yes, her mother is feeling better, thank you; she loves him.

That letter is easy to send.

His reply comes sooner than she expects. She’s standing in the kitchen on a Sunday morning, humming over the silence of an empty house as she breaks her last remaining egg into the pan for breakfast. She still hasn’t cleaned up the remnants of dinner last night; her meager dishes lie stacked on the counter. A newspaper and a few discarded notes from friends laying atop the kitchen table, dappled by the sunlight shining through the gingham curtains. Neither she nor Ron like gingham, she’s pretty sure. The curtains were Davy’s choice. So was the bedspread, the mirror in the hall, the color of the bathroom tile. The floral-painted kitchen table is an antique, passed down from Davy’s grandmother.

If Eleanor’s new husband asked her to move into a dead woman’s home, to fill her place in bed every morning, she would have balked. That’s a burden too heavy for anyone; relationships, her mother says, cannot thrive with a ghost in the way.

Ron’s never said anything. He likes the bedspread. The table is charming. And he can live with gingham.

The egg is fizzling on the pan when a knock echoes above it all. Firm, but soft — not military. Eleanor turns on her heel, striding down the hall. She doesn’t have a window on her door, so there’s no knowing who’s there until she throws the door open.

“Oh!” she gasps, and falls into Ron’s arms.

He’s still got a few bandages on his face; those are off by the end of the day, leaving barely visible scars along one cheek. “Wasn’t much of anything,” he reassures her as she scrapes her breakfast onto his plate. “A potato masher caught me by surprise, somewhere near Carentan. I walked myself to the aid station.” He's also favoring one leg, but Eleanor doesn’t comment on that. He’s  _ home _ now. There will be plenty of time to look after him, and soothe all his wounds.

_ Home _ . Eleanor’s head feels light for the entire day. Her chest is filled with helium, and her heart does cartwheels every time Ron looks her way.  _ He came back to her.  _ God above, he came back.

Of course, it’s impossible for Ron to stay by her side all the time; the Airborne is always training, even in their leisure time. The days are not his own, and he must be gone early in the morning — Eleanor finds herself trying to wake early, just for the pleasure of cooking him breakfast, but he’s always gone by the time dawn filters in through her flowered bedroom curtains. Nights, however, are all their own. Ron returns with a roguish smile that sets her heart alight; often, he has a bottle of champagne or extra sugar rations, things he ought not to have but has his own ways of obtaining. They dine in the fading twilight, listening to music drifting from the old phonograph. At her urging, he’ll sometimes rise and take her in his arms. They sway to Vera Lynn and Edith Piaf, the cozy sitting room turned into their own ballroom. When he ducks his head, she is freed from the captivating intensity of his dark eyes… but Ron’s breath caresses her ear, and his hands wander along her hips as he whispers, “You look beautiful tonight.”

He tells her she looks beautiful so often, with a note of covetousness that always makes it feel like the first time. Eleanor would be lying to pretend it doesn’t make her swoon.

They retire to the bedroom by nine, but never get to sleep until much later. Night after night, it’s all the same.

Perhaps this is what heaven feels like. Eleanor has not been a saint in her lifetime — certainly not good enough to warrant bliss like this — but then again, Ron is hardly an angel. It’s perfect anyways. She saviors each moment, and covets them when they are apart. If she could bottle one of their nights, and keep it, preserved and vivid, for the rest of her life… she would die a happy woman.

“Do you like my letters?” he asks one night, tracing lazy shapes into her bare shoulder with his finger. Eleanor turns, sheets pooling around her waist. When she meets his gaze, it is black and intent.

“I adore them,” she answers honestly.

“They’re not too much, then?”

“Not at all.” They’re more than she would have ever expected of him… but by now, she has seen glimpses of his quicksilver soul, and knows exactly how it gleams beneath his roughened surface. Ron has a tender heart. He will never let on, and he is picky whom he shares it with, but something beautiful beats inside his chest. She is honored he allows her glimpses of it.

“Write me more,” she urges, cupping his face in her hands. He’s grown stubble by now, rough against her palm. When she traces a thumb over his cheekbone, his eyes flutter. “It’s difficult for me to reply, but I read them over and over… it’s the next best thing to having you here with me, you know. I need a piece of you with me, even when you’re far away.”

Something tender passes over his face. He leans in then, and kisses her, fierce and breathless.

She gets her wish.

The Americans fly out again in the middle of September, with little warning. Ron leaves her that day with a tender kiss, stirring her from sleep. He is gone before the drowsy fog has totally cleared, like a dream dispelled upon waking. The next few weeks pass in a haze of missing him, waiting and praying for a letter instead of a telegram. Some mornings, she misses him so much that she cannot bear the smell of breakfast. The other women down at the flower shop are sympathetic to her — their husbands are away at war too, of course — but Eleanor catches the gazes that flicker behind her back, and a part of her resents them for it. Not everyone in town appreciated how quickly she married again, so soon after losing Davy.  _ Once widowed, twice shy,  _ as they say.

When Ron’s letter does come, she tears into it like a ravenous animal.  _ My Beloved Eleanor, _ he starts, as always:

_ Holland is rainy. Rainier than England, which up to now I never imagined could be possible. You would enjoy it, I think, knowing your love for a good downpour, but we have picked the wrong season for invasion. I think I would like the country far better in the springtime… though if we’re not here long enough to see it, I can’t say I’ll mourn. _

_ Nights are when I feel your absence the most. Homesickness is like a physical wound. It can do as much damage to a man as a bullet or grenade, because it distracts him, and that can be fatal. Don’t worry, I’m taking care of myself over here. Remembering your reaction to my battle scars from Holland, I would not risk your wrath again. You know by now that I bear wounds without faltering, so the homesickness is bearable too. No matter how I ache for you — especially during the rare quiet nights, when we aren’t half-drowned by rain or buffeted by artillery fire — I will keep it to myself. That’s how a wound heals, after all. You can only bear the pain, and wait for it to scar over. My longing may, but my love for you never will. That is gouged so deep into my body, down to my very bones; I will carry it for the rest of my life. You have wounded me, and I have let you. Tell me, are you proud? _

_ Write and tell me how you are, if you can. It would be a comfort to know that you are well. If you haven’t found it already, check behind the breadbox. I left you a gift. _

_ Yours with love, _

_ Lt. Ronald C. Speirs _

Where on earth he got her a diamond necklace, Eleanor has no idea. She extracts it from behind the breadbox with unabashed wonder; it seems too fine to wear, and does not suit her unadorned face. She holds it up in the mirror and stares at it for a long time, scrutinizing herself beside this piece of extravagant finery. Is this the sort of woman Ron thinks she is — one bright enough to outshine such jewels around her throat?

All it takes is remembering her coworkers discreet stares, her mother’s disapproving tut.  _ No _ , Eleanor decides, tucking the necklace away in the bedside table compartment. Not for the moment.  _ When he comes back… then I will wear diamonds, just for him. _

It feels good, to have something to hold onto besides optimism. Something to focus on, instead of missing him — a promise for next time they meet.

She agonizes over her reply for about a week, before coming to a sudden, sharp realization. The note flows like water after that, quick and informative.

Ron’s reply is messier than his usual best handwriting, and shorter too, as though written in a hurry.

_ Are you certain? Have you seen a doctor yet? When you are able, that must be your first priority. Your health is more important than anything else. The child’s health, too… but I worry for you more at the moment. The first few months can be risky… is there any way you can get help around the house? Perhaps you shouldn’t work anymore. _

_ I wish I were there with you. I wish I could look after you. Never have I wanted something so badly in my life than to be by your side, holding you — and our child! — in my arms. _

It figures he would be a tremendous fussypot.

Eleanor does not quit her job, thank you, nor does she hire help looking after their four-room cottage. For god’s sake, her own mother carried her while looking after three other children, all under the age of five. If other women can do it, so can she. So Eleanor powers through despite aching feet and and fatigue, sore limbs and a steady tightening of her dresses. Each morning, she studies herself in the mirror and wonders how different she will look when Ron sees her again. Perhaps she will have outgrown her closet then; perhaps the child will already be born.

No! The thought twists her stomach, and nearly makes her sick all over again. She cannot entertain it. Ron will be home before the birth, she tells herself, and everything will be alright. Eleanor can bear many burdens, but being  _ alone _ during this time… no, that is too much, even for her.

She waits. Every day, she waits. Every day she prays. Every day, she is met with nothing but an empty house, an empty bed… and the occasional letter.

_ We will not be returning to England in time for Thanksgiving, it seems. My hopes remain strong for Christmas. If I could promise you my presence for the holidays, I would in a heartbeat, but the army has little regard for promises. While it is wonderful to be off the line again (I can safely say our Holland vacation is missed by no one) it does not feel like home, and I cannot fully be at peace, until I am with you... _

_ The boys are planning a football game to keep themselves entertained. They are showing movies and holding concerts, but none of it holds my interest. Every hour, my thoughts turn back to you. Write to me and tell me how you are. Has the sickness gone away? Perhaps you have been struck with cravings. My mother had a taste for hardboiled eggs when carrying me; odd, as I am not very fond of them now. Just in case, I will obtain plenty of eggs for you as soon as I return... _

_ You were in my dreams last night, as with so many nights before… _

It’s a bit overwhelming, the onslaught of letters. Eleanor doesn’t get a chance to write back; no sooner has she tucked one letter away and sat down to write a reply than another one arrives. Ron’s attentions are as doting as she remembers them, but it is… different when he isn’t here in person. Being seen by him, held by him, having sweet words whispered in her ear… he is so easy to drown in. Ron’s love  _ consumes _ , like a flame steadily eating away at a piece of paper until it is nothing but ask. It is an unrelenting thing; when approached from the wrong angle, it can burn you. She hadn’t realized, until Ron was home with her, then gone again, how letters pale in comparison to the real thing.

Honestly, she’s not sure what to do with them all. Without any fighting to occupy his mind, Ron has so much time to think about her.  _ Christmas _ , he promises, more than once.  _ Christmas, and I will kiss you sweetly, and meet our child… _

The Germans have other plans. No one foresaw their attack, least of all Ron. Eleanor drops one of her mother’s antique plates when she hears, and crunches the shards into the kitchen floor as she sprints out the door. The next few weeks are a haze. She spends them in her mother’s house, mostly — suddenly it is unbearable to be alone — clustered around the radio, listening eagerly for updates. She waits for letters that do not come. They celebrate, with what scarce rations they have, but it does not feel like Christmas.

On New Year’s Eve, Eleanor sits down and pens a letter — a whole letter! — to Ron, for the first time in months. Three pages full of yearning, of frustration, of fear… and love, of course, reaffirmed with each paragraph. It occurs to her only after the letter has been signed and sealed that she has no idea where to send it.

Eleanor tucks it in a kitchen drawer, and resolves to mail it another day.

* * *

A week after New Year’s, she begins to bleed.

Later, it will seem only like an act of God that she was not alone at the time. Mrs. Wembledon from across the street, who trims her garden even in the winter, spotted her stumbling out of the house, a hand clutching her stomach. In moments, the older woman had her sitting on the front porch, breathing through the pain. They waited for the ambulance together; Eleanor clutched her hand until her knuckles cracked, but her kind neighbor did not flinch.  _ Keep calm and carry on,  _ Churchill says. In that moment, Eleanor was anything but.

How would she ever write Ron, she remembers thinking, just to tell him she lost their baby?

The baby lives, through no help of her own. Later on, the doctors will say stress is to blame… and Eleanor, devastated, will tear her hair at the roots in guilt. Even if she were allowed to, she would not be able to get out of bed… but the doctors enforce a strict bed rest regime on her, through the month of January and well into February.

By March, she is finally allowed to move around again. Swollen and unsteady on her feet, the empty house is no longer bearable; her mother, bless her indomitable heart, won’t allow it. Eleanor finally concedes to what she refused to for years, ever since Davy vanished into the blue — she moves back in with her mother.

Eleanor’s brother collects the mail at her house weekly. A pile of letters steadily builds up in Eleanor’s desk drawer — three months’ worth, gone unreplied. A lesser man would lose steam after a while, but Ron’s persistence is the stuff of Greek myth.

_ My Dear Eleanor,  _ he begins one recent letter.

_ We are steadily pushing forward now. The Germans are retreating, and we are glad for it, because all feel this war has gone on long enough. As company commander, my workload is heavier than it has ever been, but I still find time to notice things about the men. Some clutch letters from home like rosaries, clinging to them in times of strife. Some tell stories, as though the force and enthusiasm of their words can conjure their memories into vivid life. Some refuse to talk about home at all. _

_ I am among the latter category. Only one lieutenant here has become appraised of my world back home… a reliable man who has proven a great help to me, C. Lipton. Speaking of you soothes the ache of our distance some, and the longer we are apart, the more I find I have to say. I remember us dancing in the pub, how you laughed when your heel broke and I caught you. I recall the way you always burn toast, no matter what, and curse to yourself as you scrape it off the pan. I recall the way you read, sideways on a chair with your legs crossed, a tiny smile on your lips, and wonder if you are reading my letters the same way. _

_ More than anything, I wonder if you are well. Having not heard from you in so long… I understand letter-writing does not come easily to you, but I have to wonder. _

_ As we push into Germany, I am sending along gifts for you — more than I brought back from our French excursion. Consider them belated housewarming presents, which we will enjoy together once I return. _

_ I look forward to that day like a drowning man craves air. There is so much to do… but my soul will not rest until I see your smile again, in person, not just in memory. _

_ Yours, _

_ Captain Ronald C. Speirs _

He practically begs her to write… but time after time, Eleanor finds that she cannot. Ron didn’t marry her for her warmth; he ought to know what she is and isn't capable of.

* * *

The mood in England grows steadily brighter over the next few weeks. They are winning the war, and everyone knows it. Celebration is premature, but it is in the air, and the civilians cannot help themselves. Eleanor sings along to the radio at night — songs of victory — while helping her mother prepare dinner. She chops vegetables with a brand new silverware set, delivered to her house from who-knows-where, Germany. Every week, along with letters, her brother returns carting a series of implausible, expensive gifts. However Ron manages to obtain it all, she doesn’t dare ask — questioning his methods has never proved fruitful — but she treats it all with reverence. He sends her candlesticks, gilded books, silver jewelry and gold plates. Half of the bounty, she has no idea what to do with. It forms a steady mountain in her mother’s sewing room, accumulating as the months pass.

While the treasure grows bigger, Ron’s letters grow shorter. At some point, his emotional confidences fade into more matter-of-fact languages. His sentences are short and to the point. He asks about her and the baby, or course, but it does not seem like he’s expecting a reply.

Eleanor has to stay off her feet a lot, even as she grows bigger. Her mother pampers her like a queen; she lingers in her childhood bedroom, reading and daydreaming, as overseas the last gasps of a war are heaved.

On V-E day, she aches too much to get out of bed. Tears are shed into her pillow, both relief and exhaustion. It’s over now… and she wants him home. She wants Ron here, by her side, holding her close… that’s all she’s ever wanted, since this ordeal began.

Except he doesn’t come. He never comes. Like Davy, like losing him all over again, he left her… and she… is all alone.

She thought she could bear if. She thought she could forgive him. She wants to, god knows, wants it with every fiber of her being.

But forgiving from a distance is just as hard as loving, and Eleanor finds herself no longer capable of either.

When she wakes up at noon on an overcast June day, there’s a man’s voice in the kitchen.

She holds upright, moving faster than she has in weeks. The siren’s call of  _ familiarity _ tugs at her heart like a leash. She knows him, she  _ knows him…  _ and even before her mind can place it, her body is moving. Damn the eight-months-along shuffle, damn the aching and fatigue which leave her bedbound most days… Eleanor stumbles to the kitchen, dragging a hand along the wall for balance, with her heart caught in her throat.

_ He’s home,  _ she thinks, ears ringing with joy.  _ He’s come back, my love, he’s here — _

She expects Ron. She’s  _ ready _ for Ron.

Ron isn’t here.

The world drops out from under her, and Eleanor hits the kitchen floor like porcelain. A sharp gasp rips from her throat, turning into a sob halfway. She does not manage to catch herself; in just seconds, he has done that for her, and she is cradled in his arms.

Oh, her darling. Her darling.

“You’re home,” she weeps, cupping Davy’s face with a desperate hand. He is just as she remembers him — blond and bright-eyed, with that irrepressible grin that makes her feel like she’s flying. He brushes her tears with one hand, pressing a fierce kiss to her brow, and she can only lean into him.

“I’m home,” he echoes… and then, as though noticing for the first time, “You’re… pregnant.”

“I am?” It shouldn’t come out as a question, really, considering it’s been her predominant concern for eight months… but as soon as she comes back to herself, a hand over her stomach, Eleanor remembers. “I am.” Her gaze darts up to Davy, wide-eyed. “I’m married.”

“Yes, you are,” he replies vehemently.

“No, I mean, I’m…” She holds up one trembling hand. From the way shock cuts his face like a whip’s lash, Davy recognizes the ring for its unfamiliarity. Instead of his grandmother’s old band, she now wears a glittering diamond-and-garnet ensemble that his workman’s salary could never have afforded.

“Eleanor,” he says, like he’s forgotten the sound of her name.

“Four years!” she protests. “I didn’t know, Dave — they said you were dead, everyone believed it, and I waited for so long —“

“Not that long, clearly!”

“Long enough!”

“There was no one at the house. Do we still own the house?” His voice is pitched, words fast with panic, and it strikes her that he does look older. Exhaustion has worn into his face, betraying itself in the creases on his brow that were never there before. He is gaunt. He is frightened. “For the love of god, Ellie, did you give away my mum’s dining set?”

“No! Of course not! Everything is still there!”

And the remarkable part is, it is. Everything Davy left behind has remained for four years, just as he left it — as though she always, somehow, expected him to return.

“Oh, darling,” he mourns, hand cupping her face. She grips it back until her knuckles turn white, gaze boring into him as though looking away for one moment will tear him from her completely. As it is, this all feels like a dream she has walked through countless times before. Her logical mind can’t believe it’s real.

After a long moment, the both of them simply holding each other on the floor, her mother breaks the silence with a clatter. “Right,” she declares, setting a pot on the counter. “How about some tea?”

* * *

The baby comes a week late, at the end of June. A little boy — born with his fists clenched, squalling with a set of iron lungs. He’s got dark hair, a whole head full of it, and eyes as clever as Ron’s.

Davy holds her hand on the way into the hospital. After the birth, he’s right there by her bedside, pressing kisses to her brow and praising her hard work. It’s all she needs. Eleanor eats the attention up and still craves more, hungry for what she has been denied for so many long months.

When they leave the hospital and return home together, they almost feel like a family.

When baby Robin wakes up squalling in the night, Davy slips out of bed to bounce him. He brushes through Eleanor’s curls while she nurses him; he blows raspberries to make the baby laugh. She watches on with an impossible fondness, amazed at the life she never believed she’d have — her husband and a child, something thought lost with an RAF plane years ago.

Davy doesn’t talk about the camps he was held in during the war; he wakes up with nightmares, eats everything Eleanor puts in front of him, and slowly comes back to himself. As summer fades to autumn, she dotes on them both — her two boys, who need her now more than ever.

And then there’s Ron.

His letters have stopped. She wrote to him immediately after Davy’s return; it was her first letter in months, laying out the miraculous turn of events in detail. She filled four whole pages, and sent it off in full expectation of a reply… but the weeks stretch on, and none comes.

He’s simply busy with his Captain responsibilities, she tells herself. Yet dread eats away at the lining of her stomach like an ulcer, slowly but surely making its presence unignorable. When alone with Davy, it is easy to get lost in each other — she has placed Ron’s ring in the bedside drawer, and begun wearing Davy’s once more — but every time she looks at the baby, she thinks of Ron. He is a ghost hanging over her shoulder, watching her every movement. She feels his presence now more keenly than she ever did during pregnancy.

And her heart aches. Really, it does. Her love for Ron was not an illusion; it was not a phase; it was not a desperate attempt to recreate what she’d lost. She loved —  _ loves _ — Ron.

Whenever Eleanor imagines him walking up the drive, however, her heart spikes in her throat. There’s no telling when the confrontation will come, but it’s inevitable… and there’s really no question what choice she’ll make.

“It’s you,” she murmurs, tracing circles into Davy’s back as they lie side by side at night. “It’s always been you. It always will be.”

Davy sighs into the night air, and murmurs, “I feel awful for the poor bloke.”

* * *

She’s just stepped into town for an hour, to get her rations from the local grocery. If it hadn’t been for the half a dozen local ladies who stopped to cop over Robin in his carriage, she’d have been back sooner. As it is, Eleanor makes it home just as the November chill is beginning to pick up.

A dark silhouette stands in the front doorway, waiting for her.

She pauses halfway up the walk. “Ron,” Eleanor breathes, voice soft with astonishment.

He takes one step down, then another, before halting — as though he doesn’t dare come too close. His gaze is fixed on the carriage. Robin’s tiny face is just visible beneath the blanket she made, framed by embroidered duckies. Some indescribable emotion passes over Ron’s face, halfway between ecstasy and grief.

“God, Ellie,” he mutters. After so long, his voice sounds foreign to her, but she still hears its tremble. “Is that… is he really…”

Davy came back in June, he bloody well _knows_ this. “Yes. Your son.”

Ron’s eyes widen; otherwise, he stays planted right where he is. “God,” he says again, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “You — he's beautiful. Most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Silence threatens to fall. Desperate to avoid it, Eleanor begins chattering. “He’s a wonderful baby. Almost sleeping through the night now, and his eyes are starting to change color — they’ll be dark, I expect.”  _ Like yours  _ goes unsaid. “He loves birdies, and when we sing to him… oh, he’s going to love music. Hasn’t cut his first tooth yet, but he’s been fussing a bit, so I doubt it will be long… and peek-a-boo, goodness, he loves peek-a-boo! Could play it for hours! Davy’s making him a mobile —“

She cuts off, aghast. Ron flinches.

“It’s alright,” he says after a moment. “I met him while you were out. He seems like a gentleman. Offered me a seat inside, but I… preferred to wait for you out here.”

“Ron,” she says, voice choking. When he looks up at her, she sees everything in his eyes — all the emotion he doesn’t dare to express, starting with desperate hope.

“Is this really it, then?” he asks. She blinks furiously, fighting the tears as they come. “Is there no chance? We could try something, we could — there’s got to be a way —“ 

It is not in Ron Speirs’ nature to beg… and he is not a delusional man. If Eleanor’s expression didn’t say enough, her silence already has.

“We have a family,” he says softly. Then, even softer: “I love you. So… so much.”

“Ron,” she breathes, squeezing her eyes shut.

For a long moment, neither of them speak. The winter chill pierces through her thin jacket like daggers, but Eleanor can barely feel it. It bites at Robin’s cheeks, however. He gives out a sharp cry.

“Oh, darling —“ Eleanor starts; but before she can make her way around the pram, Ron has already darted forward. He takes his son up in his arms as though it’s the most natural thing in the world. Robin has never met him before, and has no reason to trust a stranger… but after a few seconds of bouncing, he goes silent, tranquil in Ron’s arms.

It’s too much, seeing them both together. Eleanor feels weak at the knees; she has to clutch the pram to brace herself.

“I want to know him,” Ron declares, never taking his eyes off of his baby son. “I need to be in his life. Davy is alright, I don’t resent him a bit… but I have to be his father.” His eyes dart up to Eleanor, almost tentative. “You can keep everything else. Just let me have that.”

“Ron, no — bloody hell, I don’t want everything. All that you sent, the silverware and jewelry… you can have your ring back. It’s yours. All of it’s yours.”

“I gave it to you,” he replies, in a tone that doesn’t broker arguments. Still, he looks intent. “But Eleanor —“

“Yes.” She cuts him off before he can even get a word out. There was never a question in her mind before, but seeing Ron hold their son has only affirmed it. “Of course, Ron. He’s as much yours as mine. We can love him together.”

“Even… if we love him apart?”

She swallows, and meets his gaze unflinchingly. Ron stares back, not unkindly. There is nothing angry about him, nothing steel-edged or dangerous. He looks so tired. He looks exhausted — as though grief has torn him apart, and left only fragments in his wake.

“I’m staying in the army,” he says without preamble. “Then I’ll go stateside, I guess, to visit my Mom…”

“I’ll tell him stories of you,” she declares. “And you’ll visit while you can.”

“I’ll write.” He catches her eyes, and quickly amends, “To him. He’ll be able to read it eventually.”

Tears sting her cheeks, but Eleanor is past the point of caring. Somehow, she forces a smile. “I’ll make sure he always writes back.”

It is the least she can do for a man who has given so much to her. When Ron steps forward, placing the baby gently back in his pram, she reaches out on impulse and catches his hand. His entire body goes tense. For a moment, his eyes flutter, as if he never wants her to let go.

Eleanor pulls his hand to her lips, and kisses it fervently. When Ron looks up, his eyes are wet.

“I’m sorry,” she says softly.

“I know,” he replies.

Ronald Speirs walks off into the night, taking nothing with him — for he has nothing to take — and leaving behind all he once considered precious.

That night, Eleanor opens the tiny compartment in the bedside table, nearly overflowing with letters. She stares at them for a long, long time… before closing the drawer, and turning out the light.

**Author's Note:**

> i half feel like the Ron Speirs Estate is gonna sue me for this, but
> 
> okay, this was sparked by a tumblr prompt, basically "speirs writing love letters" (based on the headcanon that this man writes AMAZING love letters). in brainstorming that, i kept coming back to the crazy story around speirs and his english wife. depending on where you get your information, the stories are different --- hell, speirs' official website just says she didn't want to leave england, nothing about a back-from-the-dead husband --- but the facts are these.
> 
> in june 1944, just before the jump into normandy, ron speirs married an english woman named margaret. she'd had a fiance before meeting ron, but he went missing early in the war, and was presumed dead... so, she thought herself free to marry ron. some time after getting married --- presumably while ron was away fighting --- they had a son, who they named robert. however, when ron returned from war, he found that his wife's old flame had come back, after being held as a prisoner of war for years. margaret also may not have wanted to leave her family to go to america, or didn't want a husband who'd constantly be at war, so she chose to stay with her old fiance. she and ron divorced in 1946; when she married her fiance, by english law he had to legally adopt baby robert. in spite of this, ron had a close relationship with his son for the rest of their lives, and according to his website "speirs said she was the love of his life".
> 
> we see speirs in the show sending his plunder back to england, presumably to his wife. in the recent bob cast podcast, matthew settle said something interesting when speculating on speirs' motivations for the reckless things he did during the war --- maybe ron got the sense, from correspondence between him and his wife back home, that things weren't going well.
> 
> all of that sparked, well, this. names have been changed to protect the innocent, and this is a completely fictional account of one of the craziest stories about a man who already had a lot of crazy stories to his name.


End file.
